Category: Character Sketch

A reality television show sponsored by major industry giants, The Commodity Combat Tournaments(CCT) are promoted as a way to test, study and develop safety equipment and weapons for hunters, soldiers and survivalists.

Dog fights are illegal. Those caught breaking the animal-cruelty laws face stiff fines and punishments of up to five years in prison.

Drafted from Commodity Trade shows by recruiters, a child commodity has no protection. There are no anti-cruelty laws on the books protecting children from deadly combat tournaments camouflaged as family entertainment.

Boys and Girls selected as competitors for CCT are subjected to 3 months of intense combat training. Survival rates a mere 42%. For rating purposes, a select few are fast tracked to the games.

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Betting on how long your favorite runner would survive and evade capture was a favorite family pastime.

Sponsored by major industry giants, the “Cup of Commodity” coffee shop offered a variety of beverages and pastries in a family friendly environment. Located on the back wall behind the pastry bar, the Tracker Board ranked the top 20 Runners. Large flat screen televisions strategically placed around the room looped the most recent runner updates. Bets taken at any cash register; identification required.

You could hear a pin drop; everyone’s eyes were on the television screens. It was a good run; the freckle-faced 14-year-old commodity dodged capture for 12 days, an almost unheard of event.

It was all fun and games. The boy thought he was invincible. He taunted the retriever with clues to his hiding places.

For financial gain, an anonymous spotter sent a photo pinpointing the boy’s exact location to the Retriever.

The local television station played the clip several times. Below the underpass, crouched in the dirt the boy begged for his life. “Wait! Please!” He cried wiping his tears. “Can I see my mom? Can I talk to her?”

Annoyed with this one, the retriever smiled and pulled the trigger.

The “Cup of Commodity” coffee shop broke into simultaneous celebration and displeasure. The money exchanging hands would put this runner on the all-time favorite list. The boy’s mom would receive a small cash award from the “Cup of Commodity” for her son’s efforts.

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An accident at the textile plant left her disfigured, permitted to keep the teddy bear for comfort she sat on the bench next to the blind boy and waited.

Considered throw-a-ways, the bargain bins contained children physically and mentally imperfect. Bundled together instead of sold separately; these commodities were destined for organ farming, drug testing and jobs considered too hazardous for the adult population.

The bargain bin children receive an endless flow of onlookers. Wooden benches surrounded by a glass enclosure with nowhere to hide, the physically and mentally broken commodities wait for the end of the day and the undisclosed hell to come. The curious gawk and point at their misfortune.

Behind closed doors, potential buyers negotiate amongst each other.

Child welfare advocates on the street proclaim the government treats wounded animals more humanely than a child commodity.

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The Graphic Artist
She was 15, and a talented graphic artist. The old man was retiring and selling his grocery store. He no longer needed a grocery clerk to clean and stock the shelves. Grateful for three years of honorable service, he labeled her flier as reliable, smart and pretty. She wished he had left off “Pretty”. Pretty attracted the wolves. Her portfolio held tightly in her hands, she prayed her new prospective buyer would have a need for her artistic talent.

The old man paid for a commercial endorsement highlighting her talents as a graphic artist. The ad would run on the large viewing screens three times during the day.

The commodity surrogates range in age from 12 to 17, each is certified free of physical abnormalities and mental defect. The girls are impregnated using donor sperm from a state-run medical bank.

**Sperm and eggs from the adoptive parents may be used at an extra cost. This option increases the cost significantly and does not guarantee an infant within a specific time frame.

Baby Broker

He wore a dark suit and a cowboy hat. A man of great wealth and self-importance, he owned the “Cradle of Asset” baby ranch. His business flyer promised a newborn within 10 months of application date provided the prospective parents weren’t looking for a specific baby style. Catering to childless couples seeking infants quickly, his customers included the wealthy, the famous and anyone that could afford his fees. A regular patron of the commodity trade shows, he searched the floor for a girl with a specific look

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Exceptional grades had earned him an internship as a state-processor for the Commodity Trade Convention Center. He was 19 and nervous. His mom had insisted he wear the suit on his first day of work. Armed Security Guards escort a dozen tired, cold and hungry children into the holding room. Holding the tag scanner with shaky hands, he confirms each child’s name and number. Feeling awkward and a little guilty, he can’t look the new VEP commodities in the eyes as he marks them for their initial sale price.

The Nurse

A nurse for over 40 years, she wore a starched navy blue uniform and a white pinafore apron. Upon her gray hair pulled back into a tight bun an old faded nursing cap. She scrutinizes each commodity’s health and verifies age. Reviews the current owner’s suggested commodity classification of the child to ensure accuracy and makes adjustments if necessary. Children marked as physically broken, possible trouble-makers or panic-stricken are given sedatives before escorted by guards to the convention center floor and placed in viewing cells.

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Neatly dressed in standard commodity t-shirts and shorts, the children from various Vocational Education Programs arrive at the Commodity Trade Convention Center. A State Processor confirms each child has a legitimate working tag number. Categorized by age and reliability rating, guards place the commodities in viewing cells.

The doors to the convention center open at 8am for private viewing. Public access begins at 10am.

Located on wall posters around the convention center is the following disclosure: The commodity tag button on each child should glow green, not yellow. Yellow indicates the commodity is within 6 months of turning 18 and is ineligible for sell or trade status.

The Dock Foreman

Married with a wife and three children, he accepted the position of dock foreman at the Commodity Trade Center to be closer to his family and ailing mother. The job required a stiff jaw and the ability to push emotions aside. With clipboard in hand, he counts the children and verifies tag numbers against the shipping order.

Eating a breakfast biscuit and drinking a beer, the smelly truck driver smiles as he holds his hand out for payment.

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The Editor
She wore a dark blue skirt, blazer and three-inch heels. The blond hair resting on her shoulders perfectly styled to reflect a woman of wealth and authority. Awards cover the walls of her prestigious corner office in Preston Towers. In her hands, a crystal sculpture recognizing her magazine “The Preston Commodity Trader” as the number 1 publication read in the nation.

Her father started the magazine 30 years ago after the establishment of the Commodity Child Labor laws. He died last year on a mountain highway driving his Ferrari at a high rate of speed, his brakes failed. The police cleared the garage mechanic of tampering with the breaks after a lengthy investigation.

The Preston Commodity Trader Slogans

Make buying, selling and trading commodities easier; purchase a subscription to the “Preston Commodity Trader”.

Keep up with your favorite Runner and the Retriever hot on their heels; Read the “Preston Commodity Trader”.

Don’t get cheated out of your money, before buying or trading, check the child’s reliability rating in the “Preston Commodity Trader “.

Runners are dangerous and a threat to society; Advertise your runner in the “Preston Commodity Trader”.

Show your appreciation to the Retrievers in your city. Donate to the Retriever fund by purchasing a subscription to the “Preston Commodity Trader”.

The billboards were all over the city picturing healthy, happy smiling children working for a living.

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Huddled in a corner with blankets over his head, Gavin fell asleep to the sounds of torrential rain and howling winds. It was a pleasant surprise to wake and feel the calm of a sunny day. Tossing the blankets aside, he stood and gazed out the only unbroken window of his home. The citizens of Albiones took pride in the beauty of their town. Now, broken homes and uprooted trees were everywhere. It would take week’s maybe months to put things back the way they were before the storm.

The deadly storm had lasted the three days his wife Sonya had predicted. His loving wife always had a way of knowing what was going to happen. Gavin looked back at the rocker next to the fireplace where his dying wife had sat quietly quilting the year before. With uplifting words, she promised within a year’s time new life would spring forth from devastation. His life would change for the better.

Gavin pushed open the front door and stepped out into the sun. Everything was broken.
“How could anything spring forth from this?” he muttered as he picked up a piece of his roof and tossed it out of the way. It slammed into the broken chicken coup. An unexpected cry came from the rubble. Barely audible pitiful cries that grew louder as Gavin stepped toward the heap of wood and twisted metal. He expected to find a wounded animal that he would be forced to put down. What he saw beneath the rubble caught him by surprise. She was so tiny, cold and looked half starved to death. A large bump protruded from her forehead and her left arm bent in a peculiar way.

“Too stubborn to die?” he said as he carefully removed the rubble and picked up the broken infant. “You are far from home.”

The storm had taken many lives and there were many wounded in the town. Half the day passed before a physician arrived to look at the tiny bundle that had landed in the chicken coup. The physician examined the tiny infant with bewilderment. “Gavin, I am amazed she survived this long. You have a miracle on your hands. I have set her arm and cleaned the head wound. Try to keep her still for a couple of weeks. I don’t want the fragile bones in her arm to slip out of alignment. I can do no more. If she survives, she survives. Keep her warm by the fire and feed her the milk from the woolly goat. I will return every couple of days to check on her progress”.

Gavin stared down at the broken infant as the physician walked out the front door. “New life will spring forth from the devastation.” He smiled to himself as the words from his dying wife played out in his head. He had assumed she was referring to the crops in the field or his small herd of woolly goats. Sonya had always wanted a baby but years of trying had only produced tears and heartbreaking loss; Six infants buried beneath the grand oak. Gavin picked up the sleeping infant and carefully cradled her in his arms. “My wife would have loved you dearly.” he whispered into her tiny ear. “Welcome to your new home, Moira.”

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The moment the diner door chimed, she knew a retriever had walked in. They all looked the same, black suit, badge and firearm displayed on their belts. This one looked unhappy. Something weighed heavy on his mind.

He walked to the counter and took the first available seat.

“What can I get you?” She asked as she listened for the young couple’s exit thru the backdoor.

“Just Coffee and toast.” he replied as he fidgeted with the non-functioning tracking device. The girl was close. He could feel it. If it weren’t for office budget cuts and a freeze on buying new equipment, he’d have this commodity bagged and tagged for the landfill.

“You look like you could use a hardy meal. The boy in the back makes a tasty breakfast platter. Let me serve that up for you.” She slaps the counter to get his attention. “It’s on the house!”